


the victor

by lammermoorian (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, frankenstein undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>castiel raises sam winchester from the cage - he is damaged beyond imagining, but he is here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the victor

castiel deliberated for three days before he decided that if god wasn't going to do it, then it was up to him to save sam winchester's soul. three days was far too long already; a minute in heaven could be stretched out for days, months, millennia in hell, and in the cage, in the deepest, blackest, foulest pit, time was just another of lucifer's weapons. castiel had thought that his own death and resurrection and the sudden increase of his own power was a sign - he would not be held back by flimsy limitations of distance and time, human or divine or otherwise, and he could take sam out of lucifer's reach easily. castiel had loved this human boy, with his soft words and purposeful hands and bright, bright soul, had loved him so much. sam would be fine, and he would be grateful, and he would offer castiel anything in return as thanks, and castiel would simply be happy that he was here.

how prideful of him to think so. sam's body was in tatters already, skin and muscle and nerve shredded piece by piece down to his bare bones, ribs cracked and lungs pierced and burnt feet and so much blood. his soul was no better, stomped on and chewed up and stretched too thin. he could barely be recognized as human - lucifer had burned away his hope and his faith and left him hollow with madness. "oh, sam," he whispered with grief, clutching the ruined body to him. the morningstar had taken the only thing in the universe as bright as himself and had shattered it without mercy.

castiel refused to grieve. instead of weeping, tearing out his hair and beating his chest like the biblical mourners of old, he poured his sorrow and his love into creativity, rebuilding sam winchester's body from the ground up. every scar and mole and half-healed break was seared into his memory - the temptation to heal him completely, to erase every mark of his long and arduous life, to bring him back as fresh and clean as the first fallen snow was strong. castiel found himself going over his work twice, thrice, to make sure that every blight was exactly where it should be. ridding sam of the imperfections of his body would also rid sam of every experience that made him who he was. castiel could not bear that. as much as he wanted to make him clean and whole, to take him away from everything that wanted to hurt him and keep him safe, he wouldn't.

when he finished, castiel had a whole new appreciation for sam's body. he hadn't really looked before, preoccupied as he was with his waning grace and the looming threat of apocalypse. it wasn't sam's body that drew him in; it had been his kindness and his empathy, his boundless compassion and his heart full of love for his brother and a world that was ready to throw him aside, but none for himself. castiel had wanted to fill that void with himself, to love him the way sam would never love himself. he deserved it. demon blooded boy and azazel's prodigy and lucifer's vessel - sam deserved all of it.

but now they had all the time in the world, and castiel let himself linger. if he had slid his hand over sam's skin especially carefully, or let his eyes wander over the downward slope of his spine to his ass to his legs, who would blame him for it? sam was a marvel of evolution, a man set in marble, a cool spring wine in the desert. he was beautiful - castiel had made a masterful reconstruction.

the state of sam's soul still troubled him, however. damaged as it was, there was no way castiel could put it back - it would destroy all of his careful work, and the stress might break his mind completely. what is to be done? he thought. what do i do with the most precious part of him?

his answer was inspired. he would keep it, keep sam's soul close to his angel's heart and let him rest, give him time to heal, until it was ready to be returned to his body. after all, the soul was the most essential part of any human. castiel refused to take any chances. sam's body was dispensable, and could be easily reconstructed - sam's soul was precious, the most precious thing that castiel had ever held in his hands, and he would hold onto it as long as he could.

castiel waited, invisible, until sam's body woke up on its own. revulsion rippled through him as he watched its limbs move, watched its muscles bunch and release as it stood up on its own. it shifted and swayed and looked to castiel’s eyes so blocky, so utterly inhuman, that a nameless horror welled up in him. he ignored its calls for help, watching distastefully as it moved about on its own. his own disgust shocked him - not minutes ago he had called this thing beautiful. but it had been beautiful as a statue had been beautiful, or a painting. this... thing, walking around, speaking with sam’s voice, thinking with sam’s mind, but lacking all of sam’s love and his all-encompassing, all-consuming humanity, was by no means beautiful, or even pretty. it was an ugly thing, a flaw in his father’s design. how could he have ever thought that it was beautiful? it was an uncanny, ungainly creature, unfit for a soul as warm, as dear as this one.

let the body do as it will, castiel thought. i have the real sam; i have no need for any other part of him.


End file.
